


Take My Hand, We'll Grab the Sun

by tatecorrigan



Category: Mad Max Fury road, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Basically a post-apocalyptic death cult Jane Austen novel, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatecorrigan/pseuds/tatecorrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Driver in possession of a good pursuit vehicle must be in want of a Lancer."*  </p><p>Rated for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *With apologies to Jane Austen.

_Hot wind blasted his face. Twin engines roared, sending vibrating hums through the body of the car. He crouched, alert, hands gripping warm steel as he scanned the horizon. These were the endless plains of silence, still and lifeless except for him, this car, and his Driver. Mountainous dunes dwarfed the pursuit vehicle, threatening to swallow them in ever-shifting sands.  
_

_The car turned, and the towers of the Citadel came into view, dark and imposing in an otherwise featureless landscape. And suddenly he was no longer on top of the car but_ was _the car, and his Driver was the car, but inside him, and they were Lancer and Driver and car all together, all at once, and he laughed, wild and free…_

 

Slit’s eyes twitched behind closed eyelids, dreaming deeply. Around him, a susurrus of whispering voices began to rise, tickling at his ears as they grew closer. Slowly, hesitatingly, his consciousness was pulled forth, through the hot, darkened shadow of sleep, beckoned by the quiet, erratic _click-clicking_ sound of stone hitting stone.

 _“Ssseeawake?”_ A low voice hissed. Another voice, softer, rumbling, answered in muted grunts. _“…again.”_ The low voice again, all sharp edges and grit.

Stone hit hard rock once more nearby, this time sending a hard spray of dust over his face. As Slit felt a groan starting in the back of his throat, he slowly cracked open one eye to see the hulking silhouettes standing over him.

“Wakey-wakey, Slit-face!” Morsov lunged into the bunk, screeching.

“Ah!” Slit’s arms rose up instinctively, crossing over his belly as he braced for impact.

Morsov laughed; he had feinted, meaning to scare Slit without touching him. “Scare ya, Slit-face? Maybe you won’t show your ugly mug for Trials today!” He landed one solid punch in Slit’s chest before taking off cackling, a gaggle of other new Lancers in tow.

Slit lowered his arms, his heart thudding. Alone in the Lancers’ bunks, he sat up, shifting so his feet touched the stone floor. He stretched, slowly unfurling, easing the crick in his neck. He blinked, shaking off the dream like sand and the grit left on him from Morsov’s idea of a joke. The dream had been one of his better recurring dreams, and being ripped from it had left Slit with a sense of foreboding and discomfort. He would have preferred to start the day on better terms; his performance in the Trials would determine the rest of his half-life. Starting the day so poorly wouldn’t help him to stand out, shiny in a crowd of mediocre. And it was important to stand out, today more than ever.

Tension squeezing his belly, Slit skipped the trip to get rations and aqua-cola, instead heading to the V8 altar. The corridor bustled with activity and the echoing sounds of machinery, but once he stepped through the doorway he was enshrouded in a dark, blue quiet. Dim light glinted from the many wheels on the altar, their myriad parts reflecting dull bronze, brass, and chrome. Around the altar Slit saw the bent forms of other Lancers murmuring their prayers before the Trials. Slit waited as each of them released their V8 salutes and left, without acknowledging him. His friends among the Lancers were few and far between. _More like not at all._

The War Boys had been raised in packs as Pups, but such groupings did not always result in close ties. More often than not Slit had been at the coldest edge of the sleeping piles, the last in line for rations, and the last to get a pick of the scavenge haul after a raid, Morsov’s elbows jabbing into his ribs and knocking him to the floor. The Buzzard-born Lancer had gotten big early in his Puphood, standing thick over his brothers in the Kennels, and often made a sport of dominating smaller Pups like Slit. Even as they had grown into proper War Boys, and Slit had begun to catch up to Morsov’s height and heft, Morsov’s strength of will maintained his position among the Lancers and kept the others under his thumb.

Slit paused in front of the altar, raising his hands in salutation and bowing his head. “By my deeds, I honor him. V8.” _Grant me strength, grant me speed, let me shine today and all days,_ he prayed. _Grant me a chrome Driver to guide me to Valhalla._ Slit paused, waiting for a sign or some indication that his pleas had been heard. _Just don’t let me embarrass myself._ Still jittery, Slit dropped his arms and turned to head toward the armory.

By the time Slit arrived the rest of the Lancers up for Trials were already applying their paint. While the war paint pattern prescribed for Lancers—white, with black eyes and blackened foreheads—was observed, many of the Boys also made efforts to distinguish themselves from each other, and they had exerted special effort for today’s display. Slit found himself surrounded by Boys with additional black markings, highlighting their cheekbones and ribs, accentuating muscle tone and shape, or creating facial markings meant to inspire terror in their enemies. Prod, a lithe, eager Boy, had committed to a particularly garish circle of charcoal around each of his nipples, and dark lines drawn along the deep V-shaped span of muscle between his hips. Slit found he couldn’t keep from staring at it. _The drivers won’t be able to keep themselves from looking, either._

He was struck by a sudden pang of nerves. Would they even see him among so many remarkably painted Boys, ornamented like desert lizards in mating? Slit knew he wasn’t much to look at; he had seen no sense in drawing more attention to the obvious. Better, he had thought, to let his skills speak for him. But now…now he was unsure. He checked his reflection in the tiny shard of reflective glass Prod had left wedged in an indentation in the rock wall. The scars meandering from his mouth to his cheekbones were thick, and hardly camouflaged by the freshly applied white paint. In the mirror, Slit watched the other Lancers applying their paint and sighed, resigned. He gave up on making any improvements to his own appearance and turned to watch, and listen, as the other Lancers discussed the potential partners they’d be trialing for over the next few days.

“Who’re the Drivers?” Rake asked Krill with a nudge, smearing the white clay over his dark brown skin.

Krill hummed at the opportunity to share. He’d traded some of his most prized possessions—and a few illicit favors, when he’d run out of trinkets—to get information on the Drivers. It had been worth it; many of the other new Lancers were equally eager to know, if not quite as unscrupulous, and were willing to barter for his knowledge. “Hmm! There’s seven this time. Grate, Pack, Six, Nux, Kush, Vaz, and…Bones, I think. Two of them had Lancers go in that run about sixty days back,” Krill bit at his lower lip, slightly smudging the dark skull tooth lines drawn there. “Grate and Vaz, I think. Grate has a vehicle but Vaz, Bones, and Six are on bikes.” A note of disappointment made it clear that the riders, with only their motorcycles, would not be Krill’s preference, and he’d be focusing his attention on impressing the four drivers with cars.

“Six is the best of them, I heard,” Cudo commented, wiping errant grease marks from his broad shoulders.

Morsov interjected before Krill could correct him. “No! It’s Nux.” The look in his eyes was sharp, full of hunger. “He’s got a shine car, really good with it. S’what I’ve heard,” he added quickly, failing to conceal his intense interest.

Krill nodded in confirmation. “S’definitely Nux! Imperator was talkin’ about lettin’ him drive the War Rig on the next run.”

Rake made a face. “That’s crowshit! He’s barely a Driver, doesn’t have the experience for that! You made that up!”

“Did not! Imperator told me himself!”

Rake laughed coldly. “Was his cock in your mouth when he said it?” At that, Krill said nothing, but threw a dark glance at the other Lancer and returned to his war paint.

Slit listened, but stayed silent, arms crossed over his chest. In truth he hadn’t thought much about who, exactly, he wanted to Lance for. Slit knew he belonged out there on the road, on the back of one of those vehicles, chasing down Valhalla with a thunderstick in his hand. And of course he wanted a _good_ Driver, someone with the skill and speed to keep them both alive long enough to go out historic. He only hoped he’d be permitted to try.

“I’m gonna go for him,” Morsov declared, suddenly. The Lancers all quieted as his voice carried over the group. He looked around the room, directing eye contact at each of the Lancers in turn. “Nux. He’s mine.” Slit looked down, but not before Morsov’s gaze connected, intense, demanding— _give me what I want_ —the same as it had been for years. Slit’s chest tightened a little as he was revisited by that look, though without the cruel laughter it usually accompanied. _Stupid Slit-face! Where’d you get those scars?_

“You won’t, neither!” Rake scoffed, and the spell was broken in an instant. He laughed, but it was a hoarse, barking sound, absent any warmth. “Look at big boy here, eh? Thinkin’ he knows who’s gonna pick his rusty ass. Thinks he’s gonna have a say!”

Morsov bristled at Rake’s harsh words. “Think I don’t got what it takes?”

Rake chuckled, shaking his head as he reached to smear another layer of white clay across the back of his neck. “You’re just a Lancer, Morsov, ‘member that! Driver picks _you_ , not the other way ‘round!” His face smiled, but his tone was sharp as knives.

Morsov’s face hardened, collapsing into a pinch of anger. “Shred you, Rake!” he snarled, and there was no friendliness in the eyes below his furrowed brow. “I’m the best Lancer here! I’m gonna have the best Driver!” He stood and grabbed a practice lance, pointing it at the cynical War Boy like an accusation. “You’ll witness it!” His eyes swept the room, a challenge reinforced by the tensing of his muscles. No one moved.

A soft voice broke the silence. “It’s time,” muttered Cudo, moving toward the corridor. The other Lancers began to follow, each taking a handful of practice lances from a stand by the entrance. Morsov quickly shoved his way into the queue, reaching between Krill and Prod to wrest his lances from the stand before stalking out toward the Lancers’ range. Slit waited, hanging back, until all the others had exited before grabbing his own lances. With a final deep, shaky breath, he cast a glance around the armory, then stepped into the corridor to descend to the range in the shadow of the Citadel.


	2. Chapter 2

High in the Citadel, in one of the many repair bays, a tall War Boy used a worn shop rag to polish grit and oil from a small collection of tools, carefully placing each one in its precise place in the work cart. Wrenches, spanners, screwdrivers…all had their place, together a striking display of regularity and order. In the madness of the ashes of a dead world, it was a small thing that helped with the rebuilding.

“Nux! We’re going,” Nux looked up to see Bones jerking his chin in the direction of the main passage, a small crowd of other War Boys waiting. He nodded, wiped what grease he could from his hands, and jogged to join them.

“Sorry,” he smiled, the many vertical scars on his lips stretching and becoming more prominent. He bumped Bones’ shoulder with his own in greeting, the tall, skinny War Boy returning a friendly shove. Bones was taller and thinner than even Nux, traits which had earned him the moniker in the later years of Puphood. “Let’s go meet some Lancers, yeah?”

The Drivers converged at the entrance to the repair bays, moving together across the rope bridge between the towers of the Citadel and down to the Lancers’ range to the north. Nux floated in a circle of Boys, trading good-natured punches and jokes as they descended.

“You ready, Nux?” Grate asked, looking up and over his shoulder. Grate was stocky, small, even for a Driver, but had already been Witnessed twice, surviving by the grace of V8 both times—though not without loss. His last Lancer had gone out historic on a run some sixty days back. Grate had been stoic about the passing of his partner, a trait Nux found he admired even as it surprised him, having heard from other Drivers and older Boys that Grate and his Lancer had been closer than most, two perfectly fitted parts that functioned as a well-oiled machine, never dragging, never catching, always matched in speed and timing. To hear the older Boys tell it, watching them work together on the road was as good as the chrome in every War Boy’s canister, inspiring and euphoric.

 _May my Lancer and I be just as matched_ , Nux hoped, and shivered despite the heat. This promotion had brought him closer to the Immortan, both in rank and in spirit. Only an Imperator was nearer, able to hear the Word of Joe directly from the Redeemer himself, promised a spot among the heroes of all time. Nux had struggled to achieve so much, pulling himself up from among the Wretched, fighting and scrabbling, to claim his place among the Awaited, now closer than ever.

Nux had worked the salvage runs for just shy of seven hundred days, eventually driving the salvage truck, his first shot at real driving. Those runs had never been too exciting, just clean-up jobs in the wastes, retrieving the battered shells of cars and any still-usable parts from burnt-out wreckage. Often he’d seen bodies, some foreign, some familiar, though usually too blistered and blackened to identify properly. He had learned to check for the patterned scars on scraps of cooked human skin, to check pockets and toolbelts for clues. They’d stripped the corpses, pulling off clothes and boots, and sorting through any belongings, pocketing anything they found valuable and tossing the rest in the bed of the truck to be processed on return. A few times Nux had held on to treasures that seemed important, tried to find the other half of a Driver-Lancer pair, or just members of a Boy’s team, if he wasn’t paired up, to return them. One Driver had looked at him through reddened eyes, turning the broken spark plug over and over in his hands, his voice cracking as he thanked Nux profusely. Another had curiously studied a piece of tinted glass, its sharp edges sanded down and his name scratched into it by his Lancer’s hand, as though seeing it for the first time. He’d handed it back to Nux with a wordless shrug before walking away. Nux had taken the token to the V8 temple and placed it gently at the base of the giant wheel frame, diffused sunlight glinting off the wheels like a spray of aqua-cola.

“Ready and revvin’,” Nux answered Grate’s question with a grin. “What happening today?”

“Targeting’s today. Close combat tomorrow. Vehicle runs the day after, see how they do when we’ve got ‘em moving,” Grate explained.

Nux nodded in understanding. The vehicle run would be most important part; a chance to test the Lancers where it really mattered, not on the ground but on the road, wheels spinning and engines roaring beneath them. Could they keep their balance—and their wits—when battle whipped by at high speeds? Could they execute their orders without question or hesitation in the fires of war? With raw War Boys like these, the ability to do so wasn’t always guaranteed. Few, if any, had ever been out on the Fury Road before, and none had yet proven their mettle.

For Nux, such a chance to shine had come during a surprise run-in with Buzzards scavenging a patch of the Citadel’s territory. Nux still wasn’t sure exactly how he’d pulled the salvage truck and its entire crew out of that, with barely a scratch on any of them, and a hefty haul to boot. But he had, by Joe, and his Imperator had decided he was ready to be a Driver. A _Driver_ , with the shell of a car and its chassis put aside for him, just for him. He’d spent a hundred days collecting parts and scraps to shape it into something usable, then something more than usable: something chrome, and fast, the fastest vehicle in the fleet. He’d put the car through her paces, testing her on complex raid missions where he’d driven into hostile territory ahead of an ambush team, playing the lone, defenseless driver in a sluggish car running on fumes. He’d drawn out Rock Raiders and Sand Diggers and Buzzards, tempted by the easy pickings, before the ambush team had swooped in to dispatch drivers and riders alike, Lancers flinging themselves at enemy drivers to slit their throats and take control of their vehicles with brutal efficiency.

Each successful run had prompted celebrations upon returning to the Citadel, Drivers, Lancers, and Gunners gathering afterward to chant and scream in unison, taking swigs off a bottle of the burning shine swiped from the Organic Mechanic. Nux had always jumped in, yelling with the rest of them, fierce and feral, but when the huddles began to break off into pairs, setting off to celebrate more privately, he’d felt alone. Sure, the Gunners and the other solo Drivers made for good company, but Nux had wanted for something that was his alone: someone to share his car and the ride, someone to know his mind, to share the glory of Immortan and V8. Someone he could carry, almost feral in their ferocity but so much more dangerous, to a historic, Witnessed end to this half-life and the roaring start of the ride eternal.

And now, here he was—an honest-to-Joe _Driver_ , about to pick his first Lancer. _My Lancer_ , he thought, and a shiver ran across his shoulders. Now he would pick someone, someone to match his car and his driving, someone to fight for him and with him, someone to Witness and be Witnessed by, someone he could share just about everything with, if he wanted. Someone to join him, to share his blood and his fuel and his plans for making his car faster, more dangerous, a true terror on the road.

The Drivers’ laughter quieted as they arrived. The Lancers were waiting, freshly painted and gathered uneasily at one end of the range. The Drivers each began to look over the assembled Lancers, standing straight as rods along the back line of the range. Nudges and whispers began to ripple through the Drivers as they studied the ten potentials.

“Whaddya think?”

“Not too rusty, brother! Not at all…” Pack nudged Kush and pointed with his chin at the slim Lancer with suggestive markings along his hips and chest. “Looks like that one’s ready to swap some paint, eh?”

“Ha!” Kush chortled. “Dunno how good he is for Lancin’, but I’ll let him ride _me_ somethin’ hard!” Around him two or three other Drivers snickered, leering. Nux smiled, but looked away, back to the Lancers. The slender one Kush had pointed out looked shine, it was true, but Nux thought him too small for climbing across the top of the Coupe. _A_ _better fit for a bike, or maybe the War Rig_ , he thought. _A team of small, quick Lancers could be good coverage with greater movement_. Nux instead focused his attention on the Lancers who looked big enough to fit comfortably on the back of his car: a short Lancer with a wide chest and thick arms, a Lancer of medium height with a pronounced nose, and a similarly sized Lancer with thick, jagged scars marring his face.

Nux heard the sound of Bones sucking his teeth next to him. “Ach, that poor bastard’s not much to look at, hey? Hate to be the one who has to rut with that,” he pulled a face of disgust, then sniggered.

“Have to turn him over in the dark to get anything done on that,” Kush joined in, ever ready with a crude comment.

Nux smiled tightly. “Rut’s not the important thing,” he reminded them, swinging his arms, hands connecting in front of him. His fingers folded together.

“No, but it does help, by V!” Kush clapped his shoulder, together with Bones laughing off their nervous excitement. While all the Drivers were eager to pick their Lancers, Nux suspected some were more focused on the secondary benefits of partnership than the primary mission of forming a well-matched team for war. It was fairly common—even expected—that Drivers would rut their Lancers; Nux, however, found himself more concerned with figuring out which Lancer would be best suited to give them both a historic death.

 _Got to pick one who’s gonna shine,_ he thought. _Who are you?_

As Nux considered the line-up of Lancers, Imperator Cultrax emerged from the Citadel and approached the range. “War Boys!” he shouted, and the Drivers joined the Lancers in standing abreast, arms raised and heads bowed in the V8 salute, silent. “At ease,” came the command, and the Boys dropped their arms and raised their heads, waiting for the Imperator’s next words. The Imperator’s smooth head shone bright-black in the morning sun, a faint line of glistening sweat already beginning to trail down his neck. The Imperator stepped between the two groups, turning to nod in acknowledgement first at the Drivers, then to the Lancers.

“These are the Lancing trials! Drivers: These Lancers are fresh, trained up under our own War Boys, but they are unblooded! Over the next few days you will watch their drills! You will decide which of these Lancers you want for your own!”

His voice dropped, then, becoming low but still carrying across the range. “A Driver and a Lancer are two Boys, but a single unit, always ready to do War. You will be responsible for training up your Lancer under your command.” He turned then to the Lancers, raising his voice again in warning. “Lancers! These Drivers are your best shot at riding to Valhalla! Eyes _will_ be on!”

He paused to trawl a cold, merciless stare across both groups, daring any to fold under the threat of a soft death. When none quailed, he shouted again.

“Alright, thunder up! Trials begin _now_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, we'll get to the dancing soon. As Jane Austen would remind us, "To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love." (Just substitute "lancing" for "dancing" and you basically have this fic.)


	3. Chapter 3

The Imperator called for each of the Lancers in turn, each stepping forward to present their skills and open their Trials. Sprockets went first, throwing his lances with practiced ease, though the last was off its mark, the bag of white powder tied to the end smudging just at the edge of the target before angling down into the sand. He saluted, then returned to the Lancers’ line-up, looking slightly disappointed. Krill followed, casting his eyes across the Drivers, allowing his gaze to linger quite obviously over Nux. Each toss of his lances involved more twisting and flexing than was really necessary, slowing the delivery of his lances. Krill finished and turned to salute the Drivers, subtly flexing his arms as they dropped to his sides.

“Morsov!” the Imperator called.

Morsov stepped forward, and Slit noticed the swagger in his hips as Morsov cocked up his chin, head held high as he threw an unabashed stare at the watching Drivers. Morsov balanced his lances across his shoulders, arms draped casually along their length as he approached the throw line. He spun them around and over, planting the butts of the lances firmly in the sand. Feet apart, he raised a salute to the Imperator and Drivers, smiling rakishly as he dropped his arms. Then his neck snapped to focus on the target, his spine and arms curving fluidly as he plucked a lance from the sand, aimed, and delivered it, straight and fast, to the dead center of the target. The two lances to follow were delivered with similar perfection, landing neatly on top of the first.

Slit watched as some of the Drivers turned to each other, speaking low out of the corners of their mouths. Morsov must have seen it, too, because he smiled smugly as he saluted, not even bothering to bow his head in respect. He strutted back, several of the other Lancers smiling and pressing hands to his arms. “Was perfect,” Speed whispered. “Shine!” Slit was silent; his stomach had begun to knot under his ribs, aching with rapid realization. _Can’t compete, not good enough, just mediocre, gotta shine gonna rust I’m rust I’m rust_. He had to do something, had to figure out some way to show them he was good enough, maybe not as perfect as Morsov but still good _enough_.

The Imperator continued. “Prod!” The smallest of the Lancers, Prod slunk forward, his ostentatious war paint now all the more obvious against the wall of bigger Lancers behind him. He flashed a nervous smile in the direction of the Drivers, causing one of the Drivers to scuffle his boots in the dust. Prod grasped at his lances, fingers flexing. He straightened his back, breathing deeply, and began to take aim. He threw the first lance, but hesitated, and his lance hit the bottom edge of the target, landing with a soft scrape in the sand. The second lance hit closer, but the third followed the ineffectual trail of the first. Prod shrugged, then turned and saluted, his head bowed low. He glanced from under his brow to grin weakly, almost an apology.

“Mediocre,” one of the Drivers muttered, barely audible, as Prod disappeared among the crowd of larger Lancers. Slit cringed to hear such a declaration, his innards quavering at the possibility of being called the same.

He blinked under the bright sun, studying the target, thinking quickly. “Slit!” He started at his name, then quickly stepped forward, lances in hand. He cleared his throat, swallowed, hoisting the first lance up to his shoulder to aim. He squinted, cocked his head, and pointed to help sight in his throw, compensating for his weak right eye. He heard a stifled giggle behind him from the grouped Lancers, and scowled as he tried to regain his focus. Fingers sliding, Slit tossed the first lance, and was relieved to see it land dead center, echoing Morsov’s earlier shot. He breathed a heavy sigh, then straightened up and aimed again. His muscles tensed at the last moment, stiffening his form and ensuring that his second lance did not land with quite the force he wanted. _Still on target, though_.

Slit dropped his head momentarily, gathering his thoughts as he wrapped a hand around the last lance. _One more shot. It’s got to be now_. Slit lifted the lance to his shoulder, then put a foot behind him to balance himself as he leaned back, breaking form. He wound his arm back as far as it would go, then thrust the lance forward. He focused all his weight into his arm, bringing his feet off the ground to throw his lance with all the force he could muster. The lance slid from his hand, gliding upward in a long, slow trail, while Slit landed flat in the sand, knocking up a cloud of dust. The lance arced and began to descend rapidly, a slim, dark silhouette against the pale blue sky. As Slit raised his head from the sand, fingers punching into the grit, he held his breath and watched the lance fall, and fall, and fall…

The lance landed silently; there was no raw _thud_ as the thunderstick hit its target. It had pierced the sand far ahead, at least twenty meters beyond the spot where Slit’s other two lances lay, iron shaft wavering slightly, far surpassing the distance of any of the other Lancers’ throws.

The gathered Drivers and Lancers stared as one, only Kush possessing enough breath to utter a soft “Holy _Joe_.” They turned their heads to the spot in the sand where Slit lay, his body flat except for his face, raised and smiling, when they heard him laughing. He stopped at the Imperator’s glare, but the malformed smile lingered as he stood up and brushed his hands. He quickly turned to make his nearly forgotten salute, the natural corners of his mouth quirking as he fought the grin that his eyes couldn’t contain. As he turned back to the crowd of Lancers he was greeted with a jovial clap on the shoulder from Rake. The other Lancers were quiet, seemingly too stunned to react.

“Speed!” The next Lancer was called. Slit settled back on his heels to watch, but none of the other Lancers’ displays registered in his memory. He was too elated, his heart thundering in his chest.

The Trials continued until all the Lancers had exhibited their skill and saluted the Drivers in turn. After the last performance the Imperator dismissed them all with a curt nod of his head. “Close combat trials tomorrow, Boys! Meet at the pits early!” As they made their way back inside the Citadel the Drivers began to talk amongst themselves, while the Lancers lingered to collect their lances.

“Not a bad show!” Vaz said. “Tomorrow we’ll see if we can’t get some blood spilled!” He pantomimed a series of slashes and stabs, then laughed.

"That Slit, eh? _Whoo_ , what a reach!”

“Couldn’t stick to form, though.”

“Grate, with that distance, who cares? He’ll be killin’ Buzzards ‘fore they even seen ya!” Bones laughed, giddy with the thought.

“It _was_ pretty shine,” Nux added. The Lancer with the massive scars along his face had been unreadable before his turn, his blackened brow furrowed either in worry or in response to the blinding sun. But his glee had been all too clear when his final throw had outdistanced anything the other Lancers would even dare to try. 

“What happened to his face? I’ve heard he’s real good with knives-”

“Was that it? Didn’t look like an accident-”

“-Not sure. I heard he took a thunderstick to the face during training-”

“-Wouldn’t be standing if it was that-”

“Nah, I heard it was when ‘e was a Pup. Got greedy with ‘is rations, stole some from a Boy, so ‘e cut his mouth open, _scchhkt_!” Kush motioned across his mouth, tracing a curve from cheek to cheek. “Told ‘im he’d need a bigger mouth if ‘e was gonna be eatin’ so much!”

Nux chuckled, low among the laughter of the other Drivers. But before he stepped into the cool, darkened interior of the Citadel, he turned his head over his shoulder for a last look at the lancers’ range, toward the distant figure of a War Boy still walking to retrieve his lance from the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shorter chapter to bridge things a bit. Close combat trials are up next, though, which will lend itself to a little more intimacy and drama. And oh, how we love a good drama around here!


	4. Chapter 4

Slit awoke the next morning suddenly, all at once, muscles instantly tense and primed. _Combat day_ , he remembered, relaxing incrementally as he took stock of his limbs, his fingers and toes, and stretched. His engine was revving already, like tapping on the gas while braked, ready to shift into drive and speed down the road. This day was important, more important than yesterday. The day before had opened the Trials, had been a simple introduction of the Lancers, _and hadn’t he made an impression_ , but today—today they would meet the Drivers, one on one, to spar and show their skills in combat.

Already Slit felt more confident than he had the day before. Close combat was his specialty, his strength born of necessity and a fierce will toward self-preservation. _You like to fight, Slit-face? Fight me!_ Glancing around the barracks to make sure no one was watching, Slit pulled something from his bunk, slipping it around his left arm and buckling it on. He’d spent nearly a hundred days planning it, collecting everything he needed, trading treasures with Pups until he could finally craft it with care.

The brace covered nearly his entire forearm, a layer of dark leather across the top, decorated with nuts in graduated sizes across the top of his hand. A hinge across his palm connected to a long, wide blade, the tip tucked into the higher strap of the brace. His hand was left free to hold lances or fight, but in a moment he could slip the blade free and surprise an enemy with a stab to the gut or slash across the face. Slit ran a finger along the blade, smiling softly to himself, imagining the great spurts of blood he could draw from the Immortan’s enemies. His fingers drummed against the length of the brace in a steady rhythm, the firmness of the leather soothing his nerves. He set his shoulders and rose, ready to face the day’s challenge.

 

Later, after fetching his rations of food and aqua-cola, Slit descended to the empty fighting pits, the scrape of his boots echoing slightly from the rough walls. He surveyed the scuffed, uneven dirt, following a trail of bootprints with his eyes until it stopped at a spatter of blood on the wall. There had been a fight only a few days prior that had landed one of the older Pups in the blood bay, his face permanently re-arranged courtesy of someone’s fist, a reminder of the fragility of flesh in a world of steel and fire.

A scuffling caught Slit’s attention, and he looked up to see Prod, smallest of the new Lancers, entering the pits. “Oh,” Prod’s eyes went wide. “I—I didn’t think anyone else would be here yet.” The apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

Slit turned, pressing his back against the cool stone of the wall, his arms tense at his sides. His hands smoothed the fabric of his pants as he studied the dirt at Prod’s feet. “Just me,” he said quietly.

“Imperator?”

“Not yet.”

Prod nodded. “I thought…maybe if I got here early, I’d see if maybe…” his voice trailed off. “Aahh, I don’t know!” He chewed at his bottom lip absently, scraping away the white paint with his teeth. The bare, swollen spot on his lip gleamed red like a drop of fresh blood. He glanced up at Slit. “You, um. Got any Driver picked out?”

Slit shifted against the wall, pulling his hands up behind his back. “No.”

Prod laughed softly. “Yeah, me neither. Can’t really have favorites, though, not me.” He fixed a steady gaze at Slit, a challenge as much as a supplication.

“I’m mediocre,” he admitted, rueful. “I’m shit at—at all this.” He waved a hand over his shoulder at the silent pits. “You’re—you’re, at least, good at it. That shot yesterday—you stood out, it was so good! But I just—” Prod cast his eyes down, sighing heavily. “I’m rust, I know that.”

Slit felt his lips twitching toward a smile at the compliment, but stilled at the brutal confession. He shrugged unhelpfully. “Somebody’s gotta Lance for the bikes.”

Prod looked aghast, lip curling back in surprise. A moment of silence passed between them before Slit cleared his throat to speak again.

“So we gonna spar, or…?”

Prod studied him for a moment, brow still furrowed, before looking resigned. “Yeah, alright. Might as well give ‘em a show.” He adopted a fighting stance, shifting. “Better’n standing around like Wretched.”

A din began to rise as other Lancers and small groups of Drivers entered the pits. The Imperator had joined them again and watched from a raised platform overlooking the activity, ready to interfere if needed. Slit and Prod circled each other, jabbing and feinting, Prod glancing nervously toward the nearest clump of Drivers every few seconds. Slit took advantage of his distraction, crowding him until he stumbled and fell back, sprawled across the floor. Wide eyes looked up at Slit, his painted chest heaving, the dark paint spots on his chest shifting in the dim light.

Slit offered a hand to pull him up only to sense a shadow passing over them both. Slit turned his head to see one of the Drivers grinning fiercely down at Prod. The Driver offered his arm down to the Lancer, a gleam in his eye. “Hi,” he greeted, pulling Prod from the floor. His voice was slick like the rocks at the edges of the aqua-cola reservoirs. “Name’s Kush. Come spar with me,” He grasped lightly at Prod’s hand, small in his own, before leading him away. Prod had only a moment to throw a look of surprise at Slit before following the Driver to an open space in the pit.

Slit studied the pair as they began to spar. Kush was taller, bigger than Prod, and he made no effort to restrain himself for the small Lancer’s sake. Within moments Prod was on his knees, immobilized in a headlock. Kush’s free hand wandered, his eyes gleaming as he poked and groped at the tender flesh of Prod’s belly, fingertips stroking along the dark line of paint trailing from Prod’s hip. Prod’s face was twisted, his expression strained.

Slit glanced at the Imperator on his perch. Drivers and Lancers weren’t supposed to touch during the Trials, and Lancers would be thoroughly punished for any assault on a Driver. _That headlock is too tight, he’s had him down for too long. Will he do anything?_ The Imperator only looked at Kush’s abuse for a moment before studiously scanning elsewhere. _No hope for a Lancer, then._

Irritated, and feeling far too visible standing alone, Slit moved to the wall. He crouched low in a darkened corner, watching intently as the other Lancers sparred with each other, waiting for the Drivers to approach them individually. Morsov was sparring with Rake, darting between the taller man’s swings to jab at his middle, shouting jubilantly and laughing at each successful throw. In his corner Slit scowled.

Another Driver was approaching Kush and Prod, who was now being backed against a wall as Kush laughed and made a show of throwing punches. Shorter than Kush but bigger than Prod, the new Driver thrust himself between the two with a broad shoulder, poked Kush with a thick finger, and spoke. They were too far away to hear, but Slit could see the tension between the two Drivers as Kush dropped his fists and backed away, his face dark. The new Driver motioned for Prod to come forward, and Prod peeled himself from the wall, eyes following Kush’s form as he retreated.

Focused as he was on the unfolding scene, Slit failed to notice the figure approaching him until it was close. He started, surprised, at the sudden appearance of two boots in his peripheral vision, and looked up at a tall, lanky Driver, grinning down at him with lips sliced into vertical scars.

“Slit?”

Slit nodded slowly, rising.

“I’m Nux,” The Driver’s voice was smooth like water, with the sound of something promising. “You were impressive yesterday! Never seen a Lancer throw as far as that.” His scarred lips pulled back in a wide smile. “Do you want to spar?”

Slit nodded again before remembering his voice. “Yeah, okay,” he answered. He tried to ignore the feeling of eyes watching him all around. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders in a stretch. He turned his head only to notice Morsov watching him, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted in a scowl. _Nux, he’s mine,_ Slit recalled the claim Morsov had made the day before. And yet here was Nux, offering—no, _asking_ —to spar with Slit. _I’m the best Lancer here! I’m gonna have the best Driver!_ Slit’s head rang with the echo of Morsov’s declaration as he turned to face the Driver.

Nux bounced on the balls of his feet, his fists dancing loosely in front of him. “C’mon,” he urged, almost friendly. “Get one on me, let’s see if you can,” His eyes were laughing, but instead of feeling taunted Slit felt invited. _He wants to play **,**_ Slit realized, watching the Driver, darting around like an eager Pup. _This is a game._ He rejoiced inwardly. This was _his_ game, and he could definitely play.

Slit swung with his right fist, but Nux shifted and his fist glanced off Nux’s bicep. Nux blocked his next attempt, a left hook aimed at his throat, and jabbed at Slit’s vulnerable side. The hit connected, a thick knuckle stabbing in between two of Slit’s ribs. A bruising pain radiated into his chest, causing him to grunt involuntarily. He could have sworn he heard the faintest trace of a laugh in Nux’s throat, and it struck him that the sound didn’t anger him as it would from anyone else. Shaking off his confusion, Slit squared his shoulders, re-orienting himself, trying to find Nux’s weaknesses. The Driver was tall; if Slit could throw off his balance, he could get him down on the ground and dominate from the floor. He squatted low, trying to provoke the Driver to follow, where his longer limbs would be a disadvantage, or to swing out with his legs, giving Slit the opportunity to topple him over.

Nux took the bait, leaning over nearly double in an attempt to punch at Slit’s head. Slit dodged, leaning back on one arm, then swung out powerfully with one leg to sweep Nux’s legs out from under him. Nux fell hard, landing on his tail before toppling backward, emptying his lungs as he landed with a huff.

Slit was on him, driving one solid blow into the sweet spot under his ribs and one fist into Nux’s face, stopping before it connected and did real damage. His point made, Slit raised himself up, offering a hand to help Nux off the floor. Nux grasped his hand, long fingers curling into his palm, his weight supported as he began to pull himself up.

And then Slit was down, face half in the dirt, momentarily shocked until he realized _he pulled me down, broke the rules we’re not sparring we’re_ _fighting!_ The thought completed just as Nux’s fist connected with Slit’s mouth, his bottom lip splitting instantly, the taste of blood between his teeth. The fist pulled back and Nux’s face hovered, just out of focus, as Slit regained control of his eyes. Nux was over him, waiting, his previously friendly face now hardened and unsmiling. Slit’s tongue flicked out, lapping at the film of blood coalescing on his bottom lip and in the scarred corners of his mouth. _He hit me!_ Nux had hit him, square in the face, the kind of contact that wasn’t supposed to happen, _just sparring, no hitting, not for real not for hurt not until…_

Slit scrabbled to his feet, crouching low again, using one hand to balance in the dirt. He looked up from beneath his brow and smiled, his teeth smeared with red. He croaked out as he laughed, his nerves pinging like a hot engine. Then he charged.

Nux tumbled as Slit’s head collided with the soft tissue of his belly, thick arms gripping around his waist and dragging him down. Slit wriggled for position, cocking his fist back before slamming it toward Nux’s head, catching his chin. There was shouting, the Imperator’s voice, far-off, ineffectual. The two rolled over the floor, unhearing, grit sticking to their clay and sweat.

Nux caught Slit’s next punch, and the next, until they were grappling in the dust. Grunting, Slit tried to trap Nux’s legs with his own, his thick thighs straining to keep the taller man down. With a surge of effort Nux bucked him, then rolled and slammed Slit down, pinning his legs, fists still trapped in his grip. Hot breath smacked Slit in the face, and he looked up, surprised, into bright blue eyes, shadowed in the dim light of the pits. _Oh-_

Nux raised himself up on one leg, still gripping Slit’s fists. “Stop,” he panted. “We’re done.” Slit relaxed his arms, wondering for an instant how long Nux intended to hold onto his hands like that. Nux steadied himself on two feet, then shifted his fingers up to squeeze Slit’s wrist gently, guiding him up into a standing position. Over Nux’s shoulder Slit could see the Imperator’s glare, but watched as his gaze shifted to Nux before quickly dropping to another sparring pair, and Slit knew that their infraction would go unpunished.

Nux nodded briskly, his breath returning. “You’re good! Surprised you, I know,” and he smiled apologetically. “But you were holding back when I watched you before. Needed to test you, see how you’d do.” He clapped a hand over Slit’s shoulder, and his touch was like a spark before his hand fell away. He pointed to Slit’s arm. “What’s that?”

Slit ran a hand over the brace, releasing the blade by way of explanation. It sprang forward, and Nux jumped back in surprise. “That’s pretty shine,” Nux admitted, nodding his head excitedly. Slit straightened up, his chest broadening. Nux reached for Slit’s arm, then hesitated. “Can I?” Slit nodded, offering his arm forward, and Nux slid his slender fingers over the brace, gently exploring its construction, murmuring excitedly. Slit grinned with pride and looked up while Nux studied the brace, and noticed a still figure watching them both. _Morsov._ The other Lancer was sullen, mouth pulled in a grimace.

The pressure of Nux’s fingertips trailed along Slit’s skin underneath the leather of the brace, then evaporated as he pulled away. “Real shine,” he repeated, eyes lingering as Slit tucked the blade back along his forearm. Nux turned to leave him, then looked back and slowly, almost shyly, lifted his hands in a V8 salute. “Nice job, Slit,” he said, dropping his hands and walking away.

Slit stared after him, fiddling with a buckle on his brace a moment longer than was necessary, ignoring the glare he could feel from across the fighting pits.

 

“Nux, what the _fuck_ ,” Bones exclaimed later, raising his hands in disbelief as the Drivers left the pits. “That Lancer tried to _shred_ you!”

“Slit? He fought good, didn’t he? I liked him,” Nux said happily.

“He was kami-krazy! Practically feral,” Grate commented. “Good luck to the crew he ends up on, don’t know how they’re gonna keep him under control…”  
  
“I hit him first,” Nux reminded. “Wanted to see what he’d do if he actually got hit. Spar’s too soft to tell.” Nux had broken the rules, technically, but he felt his reasoning was good enough…and the Imperator, while looking disapproving, hadn’t actually done anything to reprimand him for his choice.

“Still, though. Lancers are hard enough to keep in line, you gotta have a strong hand. That one’s too kami-krazy for me.” Grate shook his head in disapproval.

“V8 to that,” Vaz chimed in. “Think I liked Morsov better.”

“He was alright,” Nux admitted. “Hesitated, though.” Nux had sparred with Morsov after his bout with Slit. He recalled how the Lancer had taken a fraction of a second after each successful hit to glance at Nux, his eyes requesting recognition, approval. _I did good tell me tell me_ , his face had insisted, and it had slowed his response times when Nux had denied him.

 _Slit, though…_ It had been a scared creature that looked back at Nux from the floor, after Nux had first hit him. But quickly that creature had disappeared, overshadowed by the mean glint in Slit’s eye as he smiled, slow, bloody, and then he had _laughed_ , and Nux had felt the engine revving in his chest.

Bones pointed at the grey smear across Nux’s belly, reminder of Slit’s retaliation. “Bit early to be swappin’ paint, yeah?” He winked.

Nux reached down to wipe away the mark, ignoring Bones’ comment. “What’d you think?” He asked Grate. “Did you like that small one you sparred with?”

“Prod,” Grate identified. “He’s not great, but with some extra trainin—urgh!” he cried out as Kush jumped on him, nearly toppling him over.

“Prod? Mediocre fighter but _Vee_ , that chassis!” Kush crowed. “There’s a rut worth the bonding, if there ever was!” He slapped Grate on the back hard, Grate wincing at the force of it. “’Course, didn’t quite get the time I wanted with him, Grate saw to that, didn’t you? But I saw enough. Felt it, too,” he laughed, thrusting his hips suggestively.

Nux watched Grate’s eyes darken at Kush’s words, but he ignored the other Driver. “He’s still trainable, deserves a chance, at least.”

“Oh, I’ll give him a chance, brother, don’t worry,” He leaned in to Grate’s ear and dropped his voice, rasping menacingly. “Made sure he won’t be forgetting me soon, either,” he snarled. “Made sure he could feel me, so he knows what’s comin’ for him. Made sure he’ll know it’s me who’s splittin’ him…”

The corridor erupted then, as Grate lunged, fist raised toward Kush's face. The rest of the Drivers pawed at them both, pulling them apart. Kush’s expression fell, then darkened at Grate’s offense. Grate’s chest heaved, his glare hard like flint. Vaz and Bones pulled Kush down the corridor, while Nux and Six held Grate’s shoulders, calming him.

“He’s gonna get the kid killed,” Grate’s voice was husky, full of something Nux didn’t like. “If Kush picks him, Prod’s gonna die fast.” He looked up at their faces. “He’d be better with more training, I could train him up right, just take a little more time with him…”

“He’ll be alright,” Six reassured him. “You’ll pick him, and train him better!” But for the rest of the day Grate was distracted, his brow furrowed as he worked.

As the work day ended, Nux met with his fellow Drivers over their evening meal to coordinate their choices for the following day’s test drives. He chewed slowly, his thoughts returned to the Lancer who had smiled at receiving his fist, and fought back at the risk of being punished. _Slit._ Grate was right, he was kami-krazy, but in a way Nux liked. His violence had been controlled, directed, and more forceful for it. The brace Nux had spent minutes studying was a clear sign of Slit’s tactical forethought; he’d put effort into his creation, cleverly thinking of new ways to do war. _Too kami-krazy, maybe, but that could be a good thing._

But how would Slit hold up on the fury road? Would he be as controlled and clever in the fires of war? Or would he prove himself mediocre, dying fast and unwitnessed? _He’s not the safe choice,_ Nux realized. _Better a Lancer like Morsov, more predictable, easier to control._ Nux could only pick one Lancer, and only the test drive would determine his choice for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Chapter 1 has been edited, in a very minor fashion, to be consistent with some subplot details that got fleshed out in this chapter. As always, my many thanks to tumblr user antiemetic for very helpful beta reading and comments. 
> 
> This chapter turned out much longer than I originally anticipated and I appreciate your patience, dear readers. (You too, Gurdy. Even if you *do* harass me for updates more than is probably kind or wise.)
> 
> Kush, man. What a dick.


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